“I haven’t been a beat cop for quite some time. I’m Buchanan. Lieutenant Seth Buchanan. If you’d aim your weapon just a little to the left of my heart, I’ll show you my badge.”
“I’d just love to see it.” Watching him, she slowly shifted the barrel of the gun. Her heart was thudding like a jackhammer with a combination of fear and anger, but she took another casual step forward as he reached two fingers into his pocket. The badge looked real enough, she mused. What she could see of the identification with the gold shield on the flap that he held up.
And she began to get a very bad feeling. A worse sinking in the stomach sensation than she’d experienced when she pulled up to the drive, saw the strange car and the lights blazing inside her empty house.
She flicked her eyes from the badge up to his again. Damned if he didn’t look more like a cop than a crook, she decided. Very attractive, in a straight-edged, buttoned-down sort of fashion. The solid body, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, appeared ruthlessly disciplined.
Eyes like that, cool and clear and golden brown, that seemed to see everything at once, belonged to either a cop or a criminal. Either way, she imagined, they belonged to a dangerous sort of man.
Dangerous men usually appealed to her. But at the moment, as she took in the oddity of the situation, her mood wasn’t receptive.
“All right, Buchanan, Lieutenant Seth, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing in my house.” She thought of what she carried in her purse—what Bailey had sent her only days before—and felt that unsettling sensation in her stomach deepen.
What kind of trouble are we in? she wondered. And just how do I slide out of it with a cop staring me down?
“Have you got a search warrant to go along with that badge?” she demanded.
“No, I don’t.” He’d have felt better, considerably better, if she’d put the gun down altogether. But she seemed content to hold it, aiming it lower now, no less steadily, but lower. Still, his composure had snapped back. Keeping his eyes on hers, he came down the rest of the stairs and stood in the lofty foyer, facing her. “You’re Grace Fontaine.”
She watched him tuck his badge back into his pocket, while those unreadable cop’s eyes skimmed over her face. Memorizing features, she thought, irritated. Making mental note of any distinguishing marks. Just what the hell was going on?
“Yes, I’m Grace Fontaine. This is my property, my home. And as you’re in it, without a proper warrant, you’re trespassing. As calling a cop seems superfluous, maybe I’ll just call my lawyer.”
He angled his head, and unwillingly caught a whiff of that siren’s scent of hers. Perhaps it was that, and feeling its instant and unwelcome effect on his system, that had him speaking without thought.
“Well, Ms. Fontaine, you look damn good for a dead woman.”
Chapter 2
Her response was to narrow her eyes, arch a brow. “If that’s some sort of cop humor, I’m afraid you’ll have to translate.”
It annoyed him that she’d jarred the remark out of him. It wasn’t professional. Cautious, he brought a hand up slowly, tipped the barrel of the gun farther to the left. “Do you mind?” he said, then, quickly, before she could agree, he twisted it neatly out of her hand, pulled out the clip. It wasn’t the time to ask if she had a license to carry, so he merely handed her back the empty gun and pocketed the clip.
“It’s best to keep both hands on your weapon,” he said easily, and with such sobriety that she suspected amusement lurked beneath. “And, if you want to keep it, not to get within reach.”
“Thanks so much for the lesson in self-defense.” Obviously irritated, she opened her bag and dumped the gun inside. “But you still haven’t answered my initial question, Lieutenant. Why are you in my house?”
“You’ve had an incident, Ms. Fontaine.”
“An incident? More copspeak?” She blew out a breath. “Was there a break-in?” she asked, and for the first time took her attention off the man and glanced past him into the foyer. “A robbery?” she added, then caught sight of an overturned chair and some smashed crockery through the archway in the living area.
Swearing, she started to push past him. He curled a hand over her arm to stop her. “Ms. Fontaine—”
“Get your hand off me,” she snapped, interrupting him. “This is my home.”
He kept his grip firm. “I’m aware of that. Exactly when was the last time you were in it?”
“I’ll give you a damn statement after I’ve seen what’s missing.” She managed another two steps and saw from the disorder in the living area that it hadn’t been a neat or organized robbery. “Well, they did quite a job, didn’t they? My cleaning service is going to be very unhappy.”
She glanced down to where Seth’s fingers were still curled around her arm. “Are you testing my biceps, Lieutenant? I do like to think they’re firm.”
“Your muscle tone’s fine.” From what he could see of her in the filmy ivory slacks, it appeared more than fine. “I’d like you to answer my question, Ms. Fontaine. When were you home last?”
“Here?” She sighed, shrugged one elegant shoulder. Her mind was flitting around the annoying details that were the backwash of a robbery. Calling her insurance agent, filing a claim, giving statements. “Wednesday afternoon. I went out of town for a few days.” She was more shaken than she cared to admit that her house had been robbed and ransacked in her absence. Her things touched and taken by strangers. But she slid him a smiling glance from under her lashes. “Aren’t you going to take notes?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Shortly. Who was staying in the house in your absence?”
“No one. I don’t care to have people in my home when I’m away. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She gave her arm a quick, hard jerk and strode through the foyer and under the arch. “Good God.” The anger came first, quick and intense. She wanted to kick something, no matter that it was broken and ruined already. “Did they have to break what they didn’t cart out?” she muttered. She glanced up, saw the splintered railing and swore again. “And what the devil did they do up there? A lot of good an alarm system does if anyone can just…”
She stopped her forward motion, her voice trailing off, as she saw the outline on the gleaming chestnut wood of the floor. As she stared at it, unable to tear her eyes away, the blood drained out of her face, leaving it painfully cold and stiff.
Placing one hand on the back of the stained sofa for balance, she stared down at the outline, the diamond glitter of broken glass that had been her coffee table, and the blood that had dried to a dark pool.
“Why don’t we go into the dining room?” he said quietly.
She jerked her shoulders back, though he hadn’t touched her. The pit of her stomach was cased in ice, and the flashes of heat that lanced through her did nothing to melt it. “Who was killed?” she demanded. “Who died here?”
“Up until a few minutes ago, it was assumed you did.”
She closed her eyes, vaguely concerned that her vision was dimming at the edges. “Excuse me,” she said, quite clearly, and walked across the room on numb legs. She picked up a bottle of brandy that lay on its side on the floor, fumbled open a display cabinet for a glass. And poured generously.
She took the first drink as medicine. He could see that in the way she tossed it back, shuddered twice, hard. It didn’t bring the color back to her face, but he imagined it had shocked her system into functioning again.
“Ms. Fontaine, I think it would be better if we talked about this in another room.”
“I’m all right.”